“Quanta of intimacy” is a long poetic novel, its ending undetermined. Each of the series it comprises is a song, a canto in the sense of the Italian Renaissance. First corseted within the universe of the studio, where all is cold and controlled, then slowly drawn out into the sunlit exterior by a voice that becomes ever clearer, ever more sincere. Or, at first also, a complete absence of bodily movement — movement is too dangerous, too suggestive: who knows where it might lead us? And then, the discovery of dance, that carries one away like the butterfly defying capture.

Quanta of intimacy is the picking of locks on doors the artist had kept shut. Textures are no longer smoothed away; imperfections are embraced. Bodies are no longer — entirely — imprisoned by inhuman aesthetic standards.

Thus “Complete”, a commission requested by a young woman between two mastectomies in the curative treatment of breast cancer.

Or “Summer of irritants”, which still gives the artist hives. He can feel, as though it were yesterday, the sting of heather, insects roaming his arms, the body itself.

Each work brings a small wavelength that sets the artist’s sensitivity vibrating and warms his cooled soul. Each work — what it is, the details that matter, the moments of creation, of collaboration, of solitary labour — ends up building what should have long been built.

It is no longer statuary. It is a tender parade.